


Give

by GettheSalt



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettheSalt/pseuds/GettheSalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These things don't usually come up when discussing biochemistry and ex-husbands. Then again, most people aren't Jemma Simmons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give

Lance's boots clomp on the stairs leading away from the living area of the Bus, and Jemma finally lets out the breath she was holding. He's insufferable, honestly, when it comes to his behaviour around Agent Morse. Bobbi. He gets so riled, instantly, from the mere action of her opening a water bottle. He's lovely, sort of, otherwise. Jemma can handle him when Bobbi's not around, and she heard he's been lovely to Fitz in her absence, in the last few weeks, so she's grateful towards him. But, the moment Bobbi enters a room, or he enters a room Bobbi's in, he gets his back up, and loses his cool over every little thing.

It would be funny, if it wasn't getting so old.

Bobbi shakes her head, and sets her water bottle back down – on a coaster, she follows Coulson's rules – looking over at Jemma. “Sorry about him.”

“No, it's quite all right,” Jemma says, waving her hands. “Except, ah, I forget what we were discussing, and--”

A loud crash, followed by a string of epithets, issues from the bottom of the stairs. There's a beat of silence, and then Mack's deep baritone.

“You might wanna watch your step.”

“Yes, thank you! Got it! I guarantee you, she rigged that somehow. Don't get into cahoots with her, Mack.”

Bobbi laughs, then, and Jemma can hear Mack echoing her at the bottom of the stairs. “I rigged that? God, his imagination has been getting more and more wild since I last saw him.”

Jemma smiles, Bobbi's laugh infectious. “Fitz told me he called you a demonic hellbeast.”

“Did he now?” Bobbi asks, her eyebrows raising in inquisitive amusement. “Damn, I've upgraded from murderous wench. That's good to know, at least.”

“I don't think you're either,” Jemma says frankly. It's true; Bobbi has been nothing but amazing in Jemma's presence since she joined the team. Kind, and witty, and smart, _hell_ , she's smart. Jemma could spend hours talking to her about a multitude of things, but her favourite topic, so far, is biochemistry. Because, of course, Bobbi Morse is exceptionally well-versed in biochemistry.

Jemma's fairly sure she's in love.

“You're sweet, Jemma,” replies Bobbi, with a soft smile. It's probably a throwaway compliment, but Jemma can't help the slow smile that creeps up on her face, and ends up looking away shyly, toying with her own water bottle.

“That's kind of you to say.”

“I'm observant.” Bobbi stretches in her seat, toes pointed towards the floor, peeking out from the hems of her worn out track pants. Jemma lets her eyes sweep from head to toe; taking in the whole of the other woman, from the way her wrists cross above her head, to her still dark hair tied back in a messy knot, to the way her black tank top lays against her tummy, all the way down to those toes under the hems of her trackpants.

“And since I'm so observant, I know you're checking me out.”

Jemma snaps out of it, catching herself having drifted back, staring at Bobbi's tummy. And Bobbi is watching her, now, that smile that had been on her lips replaced with something unreadable.

That really shouldn't make Jemma's stomach do somersaults, but, oh, it does. Does it ever. She had always made fun of Fitz for being so bloody obvious when Ward would work out outside the doors to the lab. She had been priding herself on not having stared at Bobbi, mouth agape, when she'd been doing the same not so long ago. Bobbi hadn't even changed out of her trackpants, and here Jemma was, oogling her.

“I'm sorry,” she gets out. She is, really. It's not polite to stare. Bobbi's unreadable expression turns readable, then, and the somersaults occur anew in Jemma's stomach.

Bobbi Morse is smirking at her. Predatory, inviting, and leaning forward, one eyebrow quirked in question.

“Are you really?”

“Yes,” Jemma answers immediately. “It's not polite to stare.”

Both of Bobbi's eyebrows go up, and she stands, approaching Jemma's seat. Jemma is acutely reminded of their first meeting, and the way the other woman had seemed to fill up the whole room with her presence. Intimidating, in a strangely intoxicating way. Jemma had written off her tripping heart to the fear of discovery, then, and while she still believes that to have largely been part of it, the way her heart is tripping now is strangely reminiscent of that meeting.

“You really are something unique, Jemma,” Bobbi says, crouching down in front of her, and holding her hands out. Hesitating for a second, Jemma reaches out, slides her hands into Bobbi's warm ones. It feels thrilling. “Polite, but, come on, don't try to fool me.” Bobbi's eyes, so close, are shining with amusement, and something approaching – well, Jemma would say lust. “I can feel your pulse,” a fingertip taps against her inside wrist, “and judging by the way your face is turning red, whatever thoughts you were having weren't exactly _polite._ ”

Jemma wants to argue, make a case for why she wouldn't have been staring at Bobbi and imagining a million other things, none of them proper for the middle of the Bus. She wants to, but she doesn't get the chance, because Bobbi's lips are on hers, and arguing, now, would ruin a wonderful thing.

Bobbi's kiss is warm, and gentle, and soft, and it doesn't push, doesn't press, but Jemma feels electrified all over, starting where their mouths meet, and their palms touch, and shooting through her system, quick. It's the cultivation of one of the things she's been yearning for since she and Bobbi got to the Playground, and having it makes her giddy. It makes her daring, and she parts her lips, slow, testing how far Bobbi is willing to let this go.

The taste of the other woman on her tongue is spicy, like cinnamon (gum, maybe?), and clear, like the water she'd been drinking, and Jemma moans. This is good, this is so good. She'll be content if this can go on forever, but she knows it can't. That's made evident by the way Bobbi pulls back, a second after her moan.

Jemma doesn't apologise, and she won't. Bobbi kissed her, she was only reciprocating.

The senior agent doesn't seem to be looking for an apology, though. She's on her feet in a second, hands still holding Jemma's, pulling her to her feet. “Which one of these is yours?”

It takes her a second, but the biochemist frowns, looking around them. “Which what?”

“Bunk.”

It's a damn good thing Bobbi has a grip on her hands, or else she might have to give in to the weakness in her knees, and collapse. “My bunk? My-- my... Right, it's, um,” Jemma gathers herself together, and pulls Bobbi towards her bunk, loosing one hand to lay it on the door. “This one.”

“Good.”

Bobbi's hands land on her shoulders, and she's nothing short of manhandled into the bunk, until she's sitting on the bed, while the taller woman closes the door. And then Bobbi stops.

“You have to tell me to stop, if I go too far, okay?”

Jemma nods, not trusting her voice right now, and that seems enough for Bobbi. She eases Jemma back on the bed, kissing her again, with all the heat and urgency the other kiss didn't have. Jemma's hands to go her shoulders, then her sides, then her hips, and back. She can't settle on a place to hold. She wants to touch everywhere, and Bobbi's kisses are making her head spin, and Bobbi's hands on her dress pants are making her grip shake.

It takes her no time to undo Jemma's pants, and that's when the kiss stops. Bobbi draws back, fingers running along the waistband of her underwear. “Good?”

“Very,” Jemma breathes. That's all the encouragement Bobbi needs. With Jemma's help, she pulls off her pants, and underwear, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Jemma wrestles herself out of her blazer and tosses it to join her pants, leaving her in a thin pink t-shirt, her bra, and, well, nothing else.

Bobbi seems to like the image, and spends a moment looking her over. It makes her want to squirm, the hunger in the other's eyes, but she keeps still until Bobbi meets her eyes again.

And then she blurts out the most inappropriately timed thing.

“What did you see in Hunter?”

That makes Bobbi pause, her smile faltering for a second before it comes back brighter than before. She leans forward and kisses Jemma again, slow and teasing. “Not what I was looking for.”

“And... what were you looking for?” Jemma asks, mentally berating herself. Bobbi's hands are running down her chest, cupping her breasts and skimming down her sides, and she's asking her questions about her ex-husband.

“Something he'd never be able to give.” Bobbi answers simply, settling back at the edge of the bed. Her hands are gentle when they run up Jemma's thighs, and dance over her knees, before running back down. Jemma parts them easily for her, her stomach tensing in anticipation. She feels hot, maybe she should have taken the t-shirt off, too. “Can I...?”

Bobbi's watching her face intently, waiting for Jemma's answer.

“Yes.”

Her legs are spread, just a bit wider, as Bobbi adjusts her position again, blue eyes still on Jemma's face as she settles between her legs...

“Oh, my _god_...”

Jemma's still wondering what it is that Lance Hunter would 'never be able to give', but it's at the back her mind now, far, far away. Banished by the heat of Bobbi's mouth, and the sensation of her tongue.

 

 


End file.
